Blessing for Wintertide

 

When your heart feels as hardened
as ice upon the pond,
may tadpoles in the mud below
remind you of hibernation's gift.

When your inner life seems drab
as winter's monochrome,
may you be surprised by the cardinal's crimson
or a bluebird's russet breast.

When your spirit's song is stilled
and you can't recall the tune,
may you join the chickadee's refrain
sung long before the thaw.

When you feel as wizened 
as the hazelnut's limp catkins,
may plumping pussy willow buds foretell
the fruitfulness to come.

When your hope is as frozen
as the ground on which you walk,
may the Light in all that is
kindle new warmth and light your way.

Homestead Christmas

 

She meanders the bare woodland edges,
an apparition at dusk
nibbling wild rose hips.

He weaves through winter-flattened fields,
nosing clumps of browned grass
for his Christmas feast.

They forage in frosted red cedars,
a bell choir in frozen meadows
chiming winter carols.

Visitors at Daybreak

 

Brown as the old barn's boards
and the dry leaves that litter the dirt floor,
Carolina wrens flit from beam to beam
in the cold December dawn.

Drawn by the lights of morning chores, 
they forage for morsels
in spiderwebs
draping walls and ceiling.

We work side by side,
eyeing each other.
Who is the rightful owner,
and who the interloper?

Unexpected companions,
harbingers of cheer
on this drab and frozen morning.

Offering

Reposting this from last year in honor of my deep gratitude for the simple gifts I've been given.

There's a cat in my lap on a cold and cloudy morning
and tea from a place I have never been,

wooden chairs, wooden floors, wooden tables 
from trees I had no hand in planting,

water from the earth pumped by a well
I did not install, 

apples I did not grow in a bowl I did not turn,
milk and cheese from cows I did not raise,

hay I did not bale 
in the barn I did not build,

birds' winter songs I did not write,
snowy tracks left by foxes I have never met.

All is gift.
Gratitude my offering back.

Identity

In summer's green they look alike.
Only the shapes differ.

But at the crowning of each short life
their true selves are revealed
before floating away
forever.

               Gold
                              Crimson
   Orange   
                                      Magenta

                    Pink
  Purple
                               Maroon

             Yellow

Who are you beneath the mask
you wear for the world?

Autumn Evening on Pine Street

 A simple poem for afterward

Sluggish crickets chirping in the meadow,
slowing cadence in the dark.

Crunching footsteps in the woodland,
doe or buck in crunchy leaves.

Soft rustling through front-yard asters,
stealthy foraging while others sleep.

Great horned owls' courtship concert
drifting across the frosted field.

Breezes sighing in bare branches,
whispers of the coming chill.

The season's evensong.
November lullaby.

If You Are Quiet

 It is time for this piece again...now, more than ever.

If you are quiet
you can hear the leaves fall,
following their twirling, 
swirling dance
with your ears
until they come to rest
softly 
at your feet.

Amid the gales
that loosen their grip,
even amidst the tumult
that rages in your mind,
if you stop,
if you will yourself to listen,
you will hear their 
floating gently-to-earth whispers
as they rustle
through their companions
on the once in a lifetime
descent. 

Background noise
fills my mind,
outer noise of destruction,
of greed,
of power wielded wrongly, 
inner voices of fear,
of sorrow,
of powerlessness,
noise that will drown me
if I let it
and render me deaf, 
even to the Good.

Yet in stillness
I may notice
that which lies beyond
myself
and all my thoughts.
Gazing at the trees of autumn,
swaying
in the winds
that strip their leaves,
Grace breaks through.

If you are quiet,
you can hear the leaves fall.
Listen...